


When the Clouds Burn Away

by ameliajean



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood, Gen, M/M, Return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:25:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliajean/pseuds/ameliajean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Nose and teeth."</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Clouds Burn Away

**Author's Note:**

> This has been bothering me for weeks.

Striding toward a green light, Sherlock Holmes holds a tissue to his bleeding nose and braces against the wind.

 _Baker Street_. 

He hasn't even been home since returning to London, though he rather thinks his brother was right: home isn't quite home anymore. Interesting how chasing John Watson through various restaurants seemed priority one, just above blowing the dust off the shelves and plucking the strings of an irreplaceably expensive violin. No, Baker Street isn't quite home, but he hasn't anywhere else to go; nobody to phone. On balance, he'd rather not sustain another physical injury tonight. 

He no longer finds resurrecting himself appealing.

Sherlock sneaks in without a sound; Mrs. Hudson is asleep at this late hour, the lingering scent of medicinal marijuana wafting up the stairs and through the flat as his coat drags it along. Some things haven't changed, but far too many others have done. 

Believe it or not, the world never did revolve around Sherlock Holmes—something he's only just learned in one jarring gut-punch of an evening.

He'd prefer a punch to the gut, though it aches all the same.

 _How does one set one's own nose?_ Only a fleeting thought as his eyes rove about the sitting room. Once, in the dark of some pub in Leicester, a monstrously large criminal took him by the scruff of the neck and tried to knock his teeth out on the bar top. Poor aim (due to inebriation, which Sherlock nearly fancies at the moment) and a bit of luck managed to send him out onto the street with only a broken nose.

Sherlock almost laughs at the memory.

_"Oh, just do it quickly. Get it over with," he'd said, the slight waver in his voice betraying his nerves._

_John looked up at him with a doctor's patience and a friend's compassion. That being said, he was still an utter prick about it._

_"Right. It'll hurt terribly. Brace yourself, then."_

_"Hurry up!"_

_John feigned the appearance of someone steeling himself to do a horrendous, gruesome task when in one swift motion he grasped Sherlock's face and pressed his thumbs at just the right place._

_After a moment of shock and silence (save John's palpable smugness), Sherlock leaned forward just a bit, pressed his lips into a firm line, and nodded in thanks._

_And, as an afterthought, blew a big clot of bloody mucous onto John's shoes._

_"You fucking… you're buying me new shoes, you childish twat. Expensive ones."_

How did John do it? It seems so long ago and far away now. Did Sherlock delete the exact motion, placement, touch of John's hands on his face? There's nothing useful in the memory, so he tries to delete that, too. Must be a corrupted file, must be a virus, must be a bug, because it doesn't mind sticking around.

 _"Somebody loves you."_

Hasn't deleted that, either. Won't ever. Some things defy the mere attempt.

He sits on the table in front of the sofa and stares at the hearth, keeping his vision focused pointedly, precariously between the chairs. No use bringing up plumes of dust when he can't seem to breathe as it is. The taste of copper coats his mouth, warm and bitter. Hasn't slept since Prague, hasn't eaten since Antwerp, hasn't even so much as slowed down to think properly since spiking Mycroft's seltzer with a mild sedative somewhere high above a roiling black sea.

Footfalls, slow, no longer two steps at a time. Ah. 

Hasn't been an hour yet, and somehow this feels like a victory.

_This feels like a hollow victory _, he amends silently, without even consciously realizing he'd thought of victory at all.__

__What an oddly familiar sensation._ _

__John enters the sitting room, seems affronted when he sees Sherlock on the table, as if somehow misplaced._ _

__"I'm not here, I'm not speaking to you, and you're not to speak of this to Mary."_ _

__"Then why—"_ _

__"Shut up. Don't move, don't even open your mouth," he barks, and braces himself against the table's edge, his legs either side of Sherlock's._ _

__The flats of John's palms find the man's jawline and thumbs settle against Sherlock's nose. It's funny, just for a second, because John knows how to land a blow and walk away without so much as a scrape, and yet here he stands, a splitting headache turning every dull slant of light into a pinpoint of grief._ _

__John feels Sherlock's jaw tense, knows he's bracing himself._ _

__Interesting._ _

__"You think I'm going to hurt you," John says, though doesn't move an inch._ _

__Sherlock says nothing (was instructed to say nothing)._ _

_Crack,_ and it's over as soon as it began. 

__"Hmmph," Sherlock lets a restrained groan escape, just barely, and swallows down the rest of the blood._ _

__"God knows I could, if I wanted to," John says, near-whisper now, hands and legs steady as ever. "I could."_ _

__His hands slip away and he takes a step back, suddenly, as if some old, unspoken pact of insurmountable distance has returned to haunt them both. They're quite tired of ghosts._ _

__Sherlock remains seated, though his eyes dart up to catch John's._ _

__Seems time to break his implicit oath of silence._ _

__"I could've done it myself."_ _

__John laughs abruptly. "Couldn't've."_ _

__"You broke my nose."_ _

__"I did. Yeah," he says, voice just this side of amused. "I did do that."_ _

__Sherlock's eyes don't dart away, even when he says what he's wanted to say for the last sixty-three and a half minutes._ _

__"You love her."_ _

__"Absolutely, yes, of course I do."_ _

__"Congratulations."_ _

__"Piss off."_ _

__Sherlock sucks in a deep breath, speaks rapidly as if the words burn the back of his throat. "I can't seem to express myself properly. That's—that wasn't my meaning."_ _

__"I'm not going to stand here and let you make this better."_ _

__"That's fine," Sherlock says quietly, accepting of his lot._ _

"Not yet." 

_Not yet_ sparks in his chest like a hope he hasn't ever known. 

__"Soon—"_ _

__"Maybe. I don't know. I can barely stand to look at you, you know."_ _

__"If you still haven't eaten, there's a Thai place—"_ _

__John doesn't take the bait._ _

__"Stop it. Just stop."_ _

__He sets his shoulders back and it feels as if his head's in a vice. Every beat of his heart rushes through his ears; every second he stands here is another second he spends mourning the loss of something different from death entirely._ _

__"Subtext," Sherlock says._ _

__A non-sequitur to anybody else, but John knows (still knows) better than that._ _

__"Say it. Say it so I can leave."_ _

__"Nose and teeth."_ _

__"That…" John pauses. "That is not what I was expecting."_ _

__Sherlock's eyes glint slate grey in the low light seeping in from the streetlamp._ _

__"The Woman. The vicar's costume, when—"_ _

__"I know when," he says, the words clipped._ _

__"You know how to wound. You're extremely adept at it."_ _

__John takes another step back. "Yes, well, so are you."_ _

They both know Sherlock's matter-of-fact "you love her" is merely the antecedent to _"and not me, not anymore, not if you ever did."_ They both know this, because of The Woman, because of the vicar costume, because of the ring box, because of the last two years and sixty-five minutes. 

__They're both wrong._ _

__Sherlock is poised to speak again like a child begging for just another five minutes in front of the telly._ _

__"Not yet," John repeats._ _

__The phrase rings in their ears as Sherlock watches him storm out._ _

__It becomes a refrain that follows him all the way back to his flat, the syllables in sync with each step he takes away from Baker Street._ _

__In another six hours, London's sky washes over Sherlock in shades of tangerine and scarlet, as if he'd scorched it by mere proximity. Every limb feels leaden; every point of impact draws blood to the skin's surface plum-purple. Every word is as vivid in his mind as the scorching dawn._ _

__The throb of his sinuses persists, but it will heal, as all things do._ _


End file.
